Transcription: The Weaving of the First Breath

Folklore

[Recording begins. Background noise: wind whistling through heavy fabric, the rhythmic click of wooden needles.] Sit. No, closer, the wind is biting today. [pause] You want to know why we fray. Why the skin sags and the breath eventually stops. It is a matter of the tension. [sighs] The First Weaver, she did not use a loom. Looms are for blankets and tents. No, she used the long needles of a frozen cedar. She took the wool of a cloud-sheep; you know the kind, the kind that drifts so high the wool stays cold even in the noon sun. She spun it thin. Very thin. Then she worked in the silver of a dead moon. Not the glowing kind, but the grey, heavy silver that falls when a moon finally cracks open. [pause] She cast on the spine first. Knit one, purl one. A sturdy ribbing to hold the weight. (chuckles) She was proud of that part. But the wool was slippery, and the silver was brittle. As she worked the chest, the place where the breath is held, she missed a loop. A single dropped stitch. Now, listen. A dropped stitch is a hole. Not a hole you can see with your eyes, but a hole where the spirit leaks. That is why we tire. That is why we cannot hold the breath forever. It just... slips through the gap. Then came the edges. The fingers, the toes, the crown of the head. She was rushing; she wanted to see the thing move. She did not bind off the edges cleanly. She left them frayed. [sighs] Look at your own knuckles. See how the skin wrinkles? That is the fraying. We are simply unravelling, stitch by stitch, back into the wool and the silver. [long pause] Pass me the tea. It has gone cold.